Gemma's Mom

Gemma’s Mom:  Gemma is a thirteen year old who has just sprouted fairy wings because her mother was an addicted to fairy Dust.  When she burned out and her wings stopped working, Gemma’s Mom ran, leaving Gemma when she was only six.  Gemma first appeared in a short story, “Wings”, then in OGW 9/24/09, 10/29/09, 2/4/10, and now she’s the narrator of a novel I’m working on.  The following is a letter Gemma’s mother wrote to Gemma when she was eight.

My darling girl, my little fairy, my precious Gem,

Remember when I used to fly?

Remember that poem I used to read to you?   “Come away, human chyld/ to the waters and the wyld/ With a fairy hand in hand/ From a world more full of weeping than you can understand.”  I saw it framed on the wall of a friend’s bedroom yesterday, and I began to cry.  I’d tried not to think of you for so long.  My feelings for you came rushing back in that instant, breaking the wall I’d built up around my heart.

Do you still love me?  I used to be your whole world.  Are you very angry with me?  Have you tried to forget me?  Please believe me when I say I love you very much.  I’ve been scared and lonely and trying to heal.  But yesterday, the Goddess showed me that Yeats poem, and I knew it was a sign that I needed you back in my life.  I’ve missed you soooo much. 

You must wonder why it took me two years to write to you.  Maybe you’re wondering why I never came home.

Remember when you couldn’t wait to be like me?  When I left, I didn’t want you to see me so broken.  I didn’t want you to want to be like me any more.  I left to spare you.

Honey, I couldn’t bring you with me, or come back, not the way I was. 

It’s taken me two years, but I’m learning to fly again.  I have friends, I have the Goddess in my life, I’m painting beautiful pictures (like we used to, together.  Remember when we used to paint together?  Is that mural still on the wall in the upstairs hall?  Or did your father paint over it?  He probably did paint over it.  I don’t want to place blame, but in order for you to understand why I left, you should know that your father never understood me.

I should’ve taken you with me.  Every day I’ve thought of you.  Every day.  I have a picture of us from the day you were born, you’re a little doll, porcelein-white, sucking on the long sleeve of a onesy that covers your hand.  Your head is against my neck, and you are at peace.  As am I.

      

I was afraid to write to you.  I was afraid your father had turned you against me.  Do you understand, I loved him so much, but he stopped caring about me.  In the end, he wasn’t even talking to me!  He never understood me.  How devastated I was after Jacob was born, when I stopped being able to fly.

I’m not blaming Jacob -- he was such a sweet boy!  How is he? 

You were tooo young to understand, but when Jacob was born, something inside me snapped.  I think it was what’s called post-partum depression, which you’re too young to understand.  I was just so sad.  I felt like I was in a horror movie, only it was real and it was never going to end.

I felt trapped.  I was dying inside.  My wings had stopped working and were worn out and dull and I couldn’t understand why, but I know now it was because of my heavy heart.  I’d always used flying to lighten my spirit, but it wasn’t working anymore.  Even your sweet, heart-shaped face and contagious laughter couldn’t lift me up.  My wings were heavy weights.  Jacob was another weight I couldn’t carry.  Your father didn’t want to help me.

You used to say, “It’s all right Mommy,” and pat my hand.  But it wasn’t.

Anyway, enough sad talk.  I love you Gemma, I always have and always will.  I am getting better, and when I am fully healed, I will bring you to New York City to live with me.  We were meant to be together.  Goddess willing, we will be.

Please forgive me.  I love you, baby.

Love,

Mommy

Jenna

Jenna:  Jenna is from Spun, a novel I wrote about a girl with a crystal meth addiction.  Here, she’s been clean for several weeks, but her boyfriend Josh convinces her to get high again.

Jenna:  One sniff, and it’s back.

            Confidence, yes.  I mean, Yes!  Who did I think I was before, trying to be someone

            What?  Who?

            This is me.  The real me.

            All that tormenting of myself, wondering if I was worth anything, wondering if it was okay for Josh, or my mother, or drugs to complete me, and now here I am, and when Josh offers me the cd case again, I snort another line of meth without even thinking about it because all that crap about feeling my feelings was just crap, and now I feel it, I feel it all, it’s all good, and I’m all in my head:  Josh, Mom, Paige!  I love you guys!  Ruby!  And that great writer I love too, that Yann Martel who is totally awesome!

            Burning in my nose and brain, and I’m a little anxious and my thinking is going all over the place but so what!

            “Did you ever read Life of Pi?” I ask Josh, whose hands are on me, and it makes me uncomfortable (but I love him!  I do and it. is. all. good. smiles.) The author, Yann Martel said-- 

Don’t know why I’m talking to Josh about a book right now it’s crazy and has nothing to do with me really, and yet it does, because now everything means something.  I want to cry.

            “I love that you’re the smart one,” Josh says, kissing my neck.

            Hey!  I’m trying to talk here!

            Josh isn’t listening, but I say anyway, because I am so profound right now, and I am the smart one, why didn’t I see that before?  “Life and death, birth and love,”

            “Mm hmm,” Josh says. 

            Straighten up, Jenna.  I try to remember the whole quote from that author guy I love whose name I can’t even think of right now because I feel buzzy in my head, and it’s like every book I ever read is spinning around in there.  Suddenly, out of the whirl, I pull out, “Life and death, birth and love….They’re not problems, they’re life itself.”

            That’s it.  That’s me and my experience.  High on meth again, and it’s all in focus for an instant, and I’m not so sure anymore.

Josh doesn’t answer, but I don’t care, I’m just wishing I could get that initial buzz-burn back, that feeling of everything inside of me, but I can’t. 

            Whoa.  I am suddenly empty, I feel nothing.  When Josh tries to lift my shirt over my head, I say “No,” for the first time.

Juliet

Juliet:  “You’re wearing your mermaid dress,” I say to my mother as she pours us to-go cups of dark coffee.  Is my smile stretched too tightly?  I’m just so happy that she’s so happy – as indicated by her wearing her “mermaid dress,” a long, spaghetti-strapped, emerald green casual gown covered with cheap lace, worn under a faded denim jacket that matches mine.  Her “happy” -- so happy she’s like immortal -- dress.

     I’m wearing a faded black tank with a faded silver arched cat on it, over a bright white tee, under my denim jacket.  Black leggings, knee-high boots with zippers up the backs.  Everything soft and worn, from my heart to my heels.

     “You should try wearing a tee shirt and leggings and cute boots sometime,” I say, getting into her car.  She never drives me!  This is way special.  I am way special today…  I don’t even miss not getting a ride from Derek, even though he’s my best friend and he’s driven me every day for this whole year and even though this year he turned into a total hottie, not that it matters -- Michael is, and always has been my one true love…

     I shake my head so that my thoughts stop jumbling.  My curls fall out from behind my ears, and I look even more like my mother.  Smiley and red-headed.  “I mean, it feels really good,” I continue – “I always feel really good when I wear this outfit.  Like, calm.  Comfy, but also kind of shiny, you know what I mean?”

     My mother pauses, the car key poised to turn.  Did I say something wrong?  Oh Goddess no… why can’t I do anything right?  I love you Mommy --

     But my mother doesn’t burst into tears, she just says, “Interesting, very interesting.”  Then she smiles at me, and I lean in close, holding on to her arm and breathing in her scent – peaches and bergamot and coffee.  Rosemary in her hair.  Love in her warmth.  She loves me!

     But suddenly, she’s gone!  Just like that, on the way to my school with me hanging on to her every word and movement and mood.  She’s drifted into a world I only get to watch-- Heavy lids, eyes almost unfocused but not enough that she can’t multi-task – still letting me hold tightly to one of her arms, and driving at the same time.  This while her brain has sunken into creative mode.  The artist at work in my element…

     Sliding into a parking space at school, she suddenly breaks the surface, splashing up at me with an excited sparkle– “When I wear my mermaid dress, I feel slinky and cool, like I’ve just risen from the deepest, darkest part of the ocean, up into the light.  I feel renewed.”  My mother ruffles my hair as she says, “And shiny, too.”

     “Um… interesting?” I say, trying to see where she’s going with this.

     “Okay, picture this – I’m onstage—“

     “Or me, I’m onstage—“

     My mother waves at me with one hand.  “Shh, shh.”

     I hate when she does that.

     She continues, the ideas bubbling up like the froth of a wave, crash! Ideas! And bubbly-bubble— “and the show’s called ‘You Are What You Wear,’ and I have on an outfit, and I’m talking about how it makes me feel and—“

     I join in.  Crash!  “—it’s one outfit, but it’s in layers that I peel back into other outfits, each one with a different feeling attached—“

     My mother has clasped my hands in hers.  (Crash!)  “We must make lists.  Of outfits, different outfits and feelings that go with them.”

     (Crash!)  “We’ll have to go shopping!” I add.

     “Maybe one of us will be lit at a time, and the other changes clothes meantime instead of showing the layers revealed—“

     “—maybe we call the show, ‘Layers Revealed’!”

     “No, honey, ‘You are what you wear.’ Is better, it’s like ‘You Are What You Eat,’ but--”

     “We should practice wearing our outfits one at a time all day and write down what we’re feeling—“

     This is so great, I don’t even want to go to school, I’m all—

     Oh no.  Shit no!  All of a sudden she has those glassy eyes again.  Mommy’s hands grow cold as she withdraws into her own creative space again.  Without me.  Goddess damn it!

     A boy whistles.

     Michael?  No he did not.

     OMG, it was Michael.  Not whistling at my mother, not not not!

     Was.  Was whistling.  At.  My.  MOTHER!

     I tilt my head down and hurry out of the car, run into school.  I will not cry. 

     I will not cry!  Leave that to her.  Let her cry.

Maree

Maree, still frustrated by her adoptive family (see OGW 1/8, 11/19, 1/7), seeks her birth mother out on Facebook.  The Facebook search really happened, to me!

Maree:  In my room, I ::weep:: on Facebook to all my friends about my horrible adoptive father, my horrible life, my adoptive mother who doesn’t care about anything except that I call her Mom, my sisters who think I’m weird and probably a little more than stupid –-  “Who on earth besides Maree doesn’t believe in God?” 

“God, Maree, you’re so dumb,” says Marigold before she storms out of the room, crying “Daddy!”

Who on earth besides Marigold is named Marigold?

I get up from my desk and go lock the door.  If my so-called father comes pounding, I guess I’ll have to open it.  But at least he won’t take me by surprise.  It was worth it to make my snotty little sister cry.

Putting my head down in my hands, I reach under my glasses with my fingertips and rub my eyes.  Who on earth does God hate as much as me?  If there were a God, I mean.  I wipe away a stray tear.  I’m not a mean person.  I want a family, complete with a weepy little sister-bug.

I just don’t want this one.

     Taking a deep breath, I shake my hair and my head out, and it’s as if I can see my thoughts, all criss-crossed and laid out like Pick-up Sticks.  OMG, there’ one I never thought of before, OmyGod OhmyGoddess Oh My Whomever, it’s fucking genius!  I think and grab for the idea, hold it in a fist over my heart, then quit playing and get serious.

     Facebook.  It was the place I courted, landed and lost Chris Hazelton.  It might be the place where I find my real family!  My real mother!  Facebook!  My heart is a blur of quick beats, and my hands are shaking as I type into the search box, “Wilhemina German”.  I pause.  I press return.

     My real mother’s not there, or rather she might be, but there are eighty-six of her.  Eighty-six possible Mommy’s. Breathing in and slowly letting the air out, I glance at my bedroom door, still safely locked.  I get up to make sure.  Then, I get to work.

     “RU My Mother?” I type as the subject line in a message to the first woman who appears she might be old enough.  I look at her profile pic and think she kind of looks like me.  I tilt my head, look harder.  Untilt, press send, and go on to the next Wihemina German, not knowing whether she’s married now with a different last name.  Not knowing much of anything.  Wondering why I don’t just know when I see her face, why can’t I just know?  Huh?  God, if you’re there, if you’re real?

     Sudden pounding on the bedroom door doesn’t even make me pause, because it’s too small to be my father, and I know it’s only Marigold.  “Maree you let me in!  What’re you doing, playing with yourself?  I’m telling Daddy!  Daddy!”

     The mouth on that girl.  And she’s only nine, but she does believe in God, or at least in Daddy and his belt.  I keep typing, RU My Mother, RU My Mother, RU My Mother, RU My Mother…

     Suddenly a warning appears on my screen:  “You are engaging in an activity that others may find annoying.  If you do not discontinue this activity, you may be cut off from performing this activity on Facebook for a period of hours or days”

     What the—

     I slam my mouse finger down on okay, and then return to scrolling through names, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German, Wilhemina German—

     “You are engaging in an activity that others may find annoying.  If you do not discontinue this activity, you may be cut off from performing this activity on Facebook for a period of hours or days”

     Oh fuck off, I think, because suddenly, there she is!  I know it!  I click on raven-haired, sloe-eyed Wilhemina German King, and type in RU My Mother in a blur.  My heart is going to shimmy out of my throat in a moment!  I click send!

     The Facebook gods send me a box with this message now:  “You have engaged in the same activity too often in too short a time, and Facebook will not allow you to continue.  Your message has not been sent.”

     And then the real pounding starts, my fucking adoptive so-called father at the door.  Maybe the Facebook team called him.  Shutting down my page, I think, Wilhemina German, where RU? 

     I open the bedroom door and the real world presses in, his belt already off and swinging in a loop in his hand.

     You see Marigold?  I told you there wasn’t a God.

Gemma

Gemma first appeared in an unpublished short story, “Wings”, then in OGW 9/24/09 and 10/29/09.  Gemma’s mother abandoned her when she was a child.  Mom was addicted to smoking faery dust, and now that Gem’s an adolescent she has what all the daughters of dusters got – wings.  Horrified and outcast, Gemma left home for NYC to find her mother, and herself. 

Gemma:  Fear wrapped around my neck like Samantha, Ian’s pet python, gone wild.  Tightening, then loosening so I could almost taste air again… and then tight again, choking me.

Gemma, get a hold of yourself, the reasonable, somehow calm me said inside.

Aaaaaaaa cough cough gasp Aaaaaaa… (sound fading out to nothing) said the real me, the anxiety-driven, wings-fluttering, freaked-out me.

“Are you gonna knock?” said Iris.

“She’s chicken,” said Lola.

“Just knock,” said Ian.

“I’m here for you no matter what,” said Luke.

“Knock!” everyone shouted at once.

I did.  I thrust my arm out and rapped hard on the door twice, paused, and then a third time.  All the voices in my head were quiet.  I was alone in the hall outside the fifth floor walk-up.  My knock seemed to linger in the empty air.  When the air stilled, I knocked again, more gently, calmly this time because I was sure no one was home.

“Who is it?  Who’s out there?”  said a gruff voice, and I jumped back.  “Who are you?” said the voice.  Old woman?  Old man?  I couldn’t tell, but I imagined a milky eyeball pressed against the peep hole.

“Gemma,” I said.  “Um, it’s me, Gemma?  I’m looking for my mother?”

“I ain’t her.  Go away!”

“I’m here for you,” Luke said in my head before I could run. 

“Oh. Um.  Do you know um Belle um Green?  Or, I mean maybe she calls herself Belle LaGuin?  I was told, well, I mean, I heard she lives here?”  I pulled my jacket closer, forgetting for a moment that Luke and I had cut out a hole for my wings and they were out there for anyone to see now. 

I am looking for my mother, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of! I thought, and with that, my wings beat, and I rose up off the floor.  Gemma, me, adolescent faery.  On my own in New York, and doing fine.  I pounded on the door this time.

The door opened a crack.  “All right, all right.  Just come down from there.  I’ll tell you what I know.”  A gnarled hand appeared around the edge of the open door, and a long finger with a sharp, yellowed nail beckoned.  “Come on, quit your lollygagging and get in before someone sees you.  This is a nice neighborhood.”

Gemma

Gemma first appeared in an unpublished short story, “Wings,” which may yet become a novel. Gemma’s mother abandoned her when she was a child. Mom was addicted to smoking faery dust, and now that Gem’s an adolescent she’s getting what all the daughters of dusters got – wings. Horrified and outcast, Gemma leaves home in search of her mother.

Gem:

1 am: It started as an itch I couldn’t get at, but it was driving me crazy. I thought I would scratch myself raw, I mean, I really almost did. Sleep is out of the question, and that pisses me off, because I’m a bitch when I don’t get enough sleep, plus I have a Biology test second period.

2 am: Biology Shmology. What I mean is, I found out that it's not a regular itch, and actually, I am an aberration of nature. A true freak.

3 am: (Sigh, then small breath in) Little breaths as though I'm panting. I have a scissors. But then I find I can't mutilate myself, even if my self is changing and I don't like it.

4 am: Thinking of my mother. A lot.

5 am: The wings aren't going to go away. I can't cut them off. I can't scratch them off (duh). I can't just ignore them, and I don't know how the other girls with wings -- like Hope, like Mommy -- I don't know how they ever slept with all the annoying fluttering and the stupid urge to fly (like I’d ever do that!). Damn, some girls just get their periods, and isn't that hard enough when you're all alone? But they don’t know suffering like this.

5:30 am: I have to get out of here, and GET THESE F*CKING WINGS OFF MY BACK!